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“I thought it was buried with her,” I say, not giving a voice to the accusation Nash just made.
“I couldn’t bear to let it go,” she confesses.
I know what she’s doing. I can read between the lines of what she’s offering me, but that doesn’t make me want it any more than I did when I first saw it sitting in the box.
“I won’t wear it,” I tell her, dropping the chain back into the box and putting the lid back on it.
She looks crestfallen when I hand it back to her.
“I appreciate the thought though.”
It would’ve been easier to just accept the damn thing and shove it into the back of my dresser drawer, but that voice inside of me that tells me to stop placating people has grown louder in recent months.
I’m tired of not having a say, of playing the role people expect of me just because their opinions may be different.
“That’s hurtful,” Nash says before I can turn and leave the room.
I freeze, my eyes flickering from Ayla’s hand on his forearm—an attempt to get him to stay out of it—to the man who hurt her at the commands of some seriously sick-and-twisted pieces of shit.
“What’s hurtful,” I begin with as even of a voice as I can manage, “is being expected to just love something because someone else does.”
“It’s the thought that counts,” Nash challenges, and I have to scoff at the ridiculousness of the notion.
“Her thoughts aren’t my responsibility,” I argue. “And giving someone a gift out of misplaced guilt is pretty fucked up as well.”
I look from him to my sister, genuinely hating the tears now tracking down her cheeks.
“You didn’t miss Christmas because you wanted to, Ayla. Please don’t feel guilty about it. Nothing you were forced to do was your fault. I place absolutely no blame on you for any of it. It wasn’t your fault. You did nothing to entice those sick fucks into abducting you. You did more than you should’ve to keep me safe, and while I’m grateful for that, I feel like I’m being punished for the decisions you made.”
Nash tenses beside her, but he somehow manages to keep his fucking mouth shut. This isn’t about him in any way, shape, form, or fashion, and digging his heels in won’t lead to me suddenly understanding his point of view. If anything, it’ll punish Ayla because for some fucked-up reason she wants me around. Visits like this is why I hate fucking coming here in the first place.
“I’ve heard she did it for you more times than I can count, as if I need to consider everyone else but myself when I make a random choice.”
“I’m sorry if I made you feel that way.”
I lift my eyes to Nash. I don’t think the guy is as big of an asshole as I originally thought. I honestly think he just doesn’t have much experience when it comes to family dynamics, but yesterday he literally said, she didn’t go through what she did so you can flunk out of college.
Her sacrifices are her own, and having some misplaced level of expectation when giving or doing something for someone when they never asked for it is pretty fucked up.
She sacrificed so much before she was taken. Every day she was exhausted, forced to raise a fifteen-year-old sister while going to nursing school. She didn’t ask for that role any more than I wanted her forced into it. Blaming me for any of it hurts more than she can ever realize.
I did my part. I was a model fucking student every day in high school, even when I wanted to give up, because I didn’t want to disappoint anyone.
“I don’t want to live my life for anyone but myself,” I say, taking a deep breath for finally being able to voice it out loud. “I don’t want you doing it for me either.”
“I do it because I love you.”
“And just saying that implies that if I don’t take you into consideration when making a decision, it means I don’t love you.”
“You shouldn’t quit school.”
I turn my face to the ceiling and roar in frustration, hating the way Nash takes another step closer, putting himself between Ayla and me as if I’m going to claw her eyes out or something.
“I’m not going to quit school, but if I did, I wouldn’t do it in the middle of a semester.
“You’re failing—”
“Mind your fucking business,” I snap at Nash. “This isn’t about you on any fucking level.”
“School is important,” Ayla says, her voice carrying that calm tone our mother always had.
“You say that but you tortured yourself with nursing school, and now you work a shift a week at a pediatrician’s office.”
I hate the way she rolls her lips between her teeth as if she has a lot to say but is refusing.
